“I swear to you, if I find the killer of Arakos, I’ll denounce him before every man.”
“Sure you will. What are you waiting for?”
“Some evidence.”
“Plenty of that. Problem is, it doesn’t suit you.”
I was uncomfortably aware that this was close to the truth. There was enough to convict Timo in any Hellene court. “It’s not good enough. It’s not certain. I need to prove it could only have been Timodemus.”
“We reckon you’ll hold out until you can cook up something that’ll get him off.”
I forgot myself and stepped forward in anger. “That’s a lie.”
Instantly the Spartans surrounded me. One of them grabbed Diotima by the arm and flung her aside. She skidded across the rough ground. When she came to a halt, she picked herself up and ran. She ran out of the vegetation, out of the woods, and back down the path to Olympia.
Good. At least she was safe.
They pushed me, and I stumbled into the man at my right. He pushed me back and I fell against the men on the other side. This went on so long I became dizzy. It was like a boys’ ball game, but played by men and with me as the ball. If they’d done this on the grounds of Olympia, passersby would have interceded at once to stop them. But no one could see us here.
“You don’t mess with the Spartans,” the leader said. “And you don’t cheat them either. But you’re an Athenian, you always cheat, don’t you?”
“He needs a lesson, Skarithos,” another Spartan said.
“That he does,” Skarithos agreed.
Me against five Spartans. There was only one way this could end. I might as well go down fighting. I drew in a deep breath and prepared to strike first. I hoped it wouldn’t hurt too much.
“I don’t think so.” Markos shouldered his way past my tormentors to stand beside me.
I don’t know who was more surprised, the Spartans or me. They stopped pushing.
Markos and I stood side by side, and suddenly I felt much more confident. One against five was a certain loss. Two against five was survivable, especially when the two were Markos and me.
Skarithos said, “I wouldn’t have picked you for an Athenian lover, Markos.”
“No, Skarithos, I love Sparta,” Markos said. “And unlike you undisciplined idiots, I can follow orders. King Pleistarchus commands the investigation run its course.”
“So you protect the Athenian.” Skarithos spat in the dust.
“He can look out for himself. I protect Sparta.”
“Step aside, Markos. Or suffer with this bastard.”
Markos smiled and shook his head. “As I said, I follow orders.”
“Then you’ll get your lesson, too, Athenian lover.”
They didn’t say a word, merely circled and feinted. Sometimes one jumped to startle us, waiting for Markos or me to trip or make a mistake.
“What are you doing here?” I said to Markos out of the side of my mouth, as our enemy circled us like sharks.
“You mean you didn’t send her?” he said, puzzled.
“Her?”
“Diotima. She ran straight into the Spartan camp, knocked over the guard who tried to stop her, and screamed my name. I came at once.”
Markos and I turned so that we stood back-to-back. We both crouched, waiting.
“I hope you can do this,” Markos said to me quietly.
“Don’t worry about me,” I said. “I’ll still be standing when you’re down.”
“No, you won’t, Athenian.”
“Ten drachmae say I will.”
“Twenty.”
“Done.”
None of us had weapons, or Markos and I would have been dead within heartbeats, if that was their plan.
Skarithos attacked first. He punched at my head. I dodged and kicked to the side, guessing there would be another man there. There was. My foot connected with a knee, and a man shrieked. Behind me I heard grunts of pain, and I hoped it wasn’t Markos. There was a snap, and one of the Spartans screamed, “Bastard broke my wrist!”
I smiled.
That was when they all attacked at once. The two facing me grabbed an arm each.
A third man appeared, the one whom Markos had hurt. He nursed his left wrist in his right hand. He kicked, swift and hard and strong, into my balls. I screamed and my knees buckled, but I told myself I mustn’t fall.
“Why don’t you give up, Athenian?” Skarithos breathed in my ear, his hands tight on my forearm. “Go down, and it’ll all be over.”
I gasped, “And pay twenty drachmae to Markos? Never!”
I kicked both my heels against the damaged wrist of the man in front-suddenly my pinioned arms were an advantage-and my heels connected with a satisfying crunch. I could feel his bones move between my feet as I rubbed them together. He screamed and fell back. Skarithos let go to punch me hard, one-two, in the diaphragm. The other man got an arm across my throat to choke me. I was about to buckle. Desperate, I reached behind, searching for something to grab. I knew it wouldn’t stop Skarithos from killing me.
A knife came out of nowhere to strike Skarithos in the side of the head.
It was Diotima. She’d returned, and she’d thrown her priestess knife with perfect accuracy. All that practice in her tent had saved me. A priestess knife is for sacrifices. It has a razor-sharp edge but no point to speak of. If it had, Skarithos might have died. As it was, the blade bounced off his skull, and he fell back.
I found what I was grappling for and twisted without mercy. The man behind screamed, and the arm across my throat disappeared. Enraged, I turned and rabbit-punched the man who’d denied me air. He dropped like a stone.
I looked around. Both the men who’d attacked Markos were down and unconscious. “What did you do to them?” I rasped through my burning throat.
Markos shrugged. “They weren’t very good.” He grabbed Skarithos by the shoulder. “One to go.”
We both took ahold of Skarithos, whose wits had been addled by the blow from the knife. That wouldn’t stop either of us from beating the stuffing out of him.
“After you,” I said courteously to Markos.
“No, no, my friend. After you.”
“You’re too kind. Perhaps if we hit him together?”
“An excellent suggestion. On the count of three, then.”
We both drew back a fist.
Markos counted, “One, two-”
“Hold!”
Markos and I looked around to see King Pleistarchus staring at us. We let go of Skarithos. He staggered back, his eyes rolled up, and he flopped to the ground.
Pleistarchus looked at the carnage. “Am I interrupting anything?” he asked.
Markos stood to attention and said, “No, Pleistarchus. Only some light exercise.”
Pleistarchus stepped over the body of the unconscious Skarithos. “Always good to get in some exercise,” he said with a straight face. “Keeps men fit for combat.” He counted bodies. “Speaking of which,” he continued, “why are you still alive?”
“Training standards aren’t what they used to be, sir,” Markos replied, matching the deadpan tone of his king.
“They certainly aren’t if you two could stand against five of our best. These men are supposed to be officers. I’ll have harsh words for them.” He toed a groaning body. “When they’re conscious.”
“You didn’t send them, King Pleistarchus?” I asked.
He looked at me in surprise. “Me? Of course not. What makes you think that?”
The demons were whispering in my ear, telling me what to say. “Because Arakos was killed by the secrets. I wondered if those secrets were yours.” I didn’t know what it meant. I hoped he did.
Pleistarchus turned gray. Markos stared as if I were some psyche he’d crossed in the night.
The Spartan king stood silent for a moment before he said, “I see. Come with me.” He turned and strode off without looking back, assuming we’d follow his abrupt order. Which, of course, we did. Diotima stepped in between Markos and me. She was breathing hard, her chiton was dirty where she’d skidded across the dirt, and her hair straggled down her face, but she looked excited. I didn’t think I’d ever loved her more.